The humid Crossroads air hung heavy, a palpable blanket even as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and fiery oranges. Inside Slingshot’s Cafe, the usual cacophony of demonic chatter was winding down. Chairs scraped against worn wooden floors, laughter softened into murmurs, and the clatter of cutlery diminished as the evening’s patrons prepared to retreat to their chosen lairs for rest or nocturnal mischief. Slingshot himself, a towering figure even amongst his diverse clientele, leaned against the counter, wiping it down with a practiced hand. His white skin gleamed under the warm glow of the cafe’s fairy lights while his polished, cat-like horns caught the light like blueberry mousse sculptures. He surveyed the room with satisfaction tempered by weariness after another successful evening in Crossroads.

The quiet was almost unsettling after the usual boisterous energy. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air mixed with the sweet aroma of pastries and something more exotic—perhaps brimstone or ectoplasm from today’s special menu items. He enjoyed the buzz of the cafe, the constant flow of gossip, the strange requests for dishes that would make any ordinary chef faint. But he also appreciated this transition to tranquility, the moment when he could finally relax and prepare for tomorrow's demonic deluge. Just as he reached for the register to tally the evening's earnings, movement caught his eye.

A soft, pastel-colored projectile arced through the air—a fluffy missile of sugary destruction. It was a seemingly innocent, strawberry-frosted cupcake with a single, slightly lopsided sugar rose, spinning end-over-end toward his face. The sweet scent of artificial strawberry preceded it, mingling with the cafe's other aromas as time seemed to slow down.